Tales of the 31st
by Mark Ryan
Summary: Stories tell of the Imperial Guard as an army of of the willing, of an eager force with faith and loyalty on their side. But what is it, really?
1. The Defense of Hive Victorious: I

I started writing this story a few years ago, and didn't get back to it till now. I'm not happy with this first chapter, but I think the later work compared with this illustrates some growth, for which I am happy.

The story follows the 31st Magnite Imperial Guard, 2nd Company, 3rd Platoon, 3rd Squad. The story is part of my much bigger Warhammer 40,000 story, which covers the whole Magna System (I'll post some extra info later, about the planets and basic history. I'll also include a Dramatis Personae, so you recognize the names and organizations.)

More to come later.

EDIT- I rewrote parts of this. I think it's better, but it was midnight when I wrote it, so I haven't read it over yet.

-------

Sergio caught the sound of his squad mate's voices, their nervous whispers ringing clearly in the dead silence. He stepped quietly through the muddy, bombed out field, till he reached the edge of their campfire.

"He's the only one, they say," came Kaleb voice. "'Nids got the rest."

"Well no shit! If not then we'd still be at the fuckin' barracks back on Domum, wouldn't we?" Saul snapped agitatedly. Sergio looked down on them, all eight crowded around a propane burner, pushing away the chocking darkness.

"They say he's cursed," Kaleb continued, leaning in and whispering to the squads - men, all garbed in the blood red armor of the Magnite 31st regiment. The shimmering of their golden double eagle insignias was dulled by the dirt and mud around them. "This is the second time it's happened to this squad and he was Sergeant both times."

No one spoke then. Sergio rolled his eyes in anger. 'Damn recruits. Scared shitless.'

He jumped down into the trench, causing his squad to jolt in fear. He waved a hand in greeting, sitting with them.

The silence was thick and unnerving. Finally the Sarge spoke.

"We called him the Swordsman."

They all looked up at him. 'Well I've got their fuckin' attention now…'

"He's the only reason the 31st is still fightin'."

-------

Was a dusty day, air was thick with it and ya couldn't see shit for more en a meter. Durin the drop 3rd platoon took the lead and we hit the dirt first. Deployed right in fronta the hive gates. We held the line while the resta the regiment on the walls behind us set up.

Then the 'nids hit us.

For all the fire in a commisar's belly there ain't nuthin' stalwart 'gainst these bastards. And it ain't sumthin' I can explain, no, you just have to see it. A horde a claws and teeth miles wide, so far they swallowed up the horizon. So many aliens felt like no matter how many you killed they'd keep on comin'.

Lookin' at 'em was hell for your head. Fuckin' daemons if you didn't know any better, covered in chitin and claws as long as a las - rifle. Their mouths were fulla fangs strong enough to rip through steel.

Oh, and their eyes! Blood red, nuthin but hate and rage. You know when you see em they ain't gonna stop comin till they stop movin. Put a fear in ya so all you could think was to stop em before they could sink their teeth in, to keep pushin em back. To keep shootin till the last shot and hope they run outta momentum before you run outta ammo.

So we got into formation, our five squads barely enough to cover the gate, with an even five feet between each unit. Five men in front kneeled down and the five behind aimed over 'em. The Lt. and his guard paced behind us, the Commissar with 'im, all o' the bloke's silent as death.

Then the dust blew away, and the whole platoon opened fire. That's near sixty damn men shootin away, plus grenadiers. Ain't no way you could miss there were so damned many of 'em. But no matter how many you shot down, they kept comin,' tramplin' over their dead, fillin' the holes in the horde with more n' more of the xeno filth. Just the sound of their footsteps was enough to deafen you. Even when the blasted heavy bolter crews n' artillery opened fire it was like fightin' an ocean with nuthin' save a canteen. Course, sure you could see them diein' by the hundreds, blowin' holes in their lines but they just filled them in. For every one you blow away they were twenty more, easy. Just keep shootin' was what we was thinking'.

Then it happened. A shape so big it blotted out the sun, cloakin the whole mile high hive tower in darkness. When it beat its wings, the wind blew men off their feet. Not one man dared not look up at it.

It was easily as big as an Astarte's frigate, thin and bony, covered with wicked shells, a horrible clawed tail swinging with its wings, which alone could wrap around the whole hive! It descended from the sky, wings outstretched like a god. The red sky framed it, the light pourin' down around it like a fuckin' eclipse.

Its head turned down at us, its fiery gaze filled with anger. With a mouth wide 'nough to swallow a fuckin' Baneblade, filled with teeth the size of an Earthshaker gun, it let out a terrible screech that filled every man's ears.

Then-

-------

"Bullocks," Corporal Saul spat, turning all the guards' gazes on him. Everyone was leaned in close to Sergio, turned towards him in curiosity. He looked around laughing uncomfortably. "I've heard of a thing like that. That's those Tyranid Bio-Titans, winged broods? Men talk stories of them. If that came way of the regiment ain't no fight 'bout it!"

"Exactly." Sarge leaned back. "But we're still here. That's my point. He's on our side." Once more, there was the silence of anticipation, as everyone leaned in once more. Finally Nathaniel, the vox – operator, broke the quiet.

"He who?"

"Ain't it fuckin' obvious? Haven't you been listenin'?" Pyr whispered in his raspy smoke ravaged voice. "The damned swordsman he was rantin' 'bout."

"S'right. He's on our side. Only reason I'm still here. The only reason the regiment's still fightin'." Sergio turned back to look at his weapon specialist, back in the dark. "Right Amendera?"

"Yessir," she said, glancing around nervously. Her eyes were wide and filled with paranoid fear, and she clutched her grenade launcher to her chest till her nails bled. She shifted, glancing around at faces as though each was a threat, taking a breath to speak.

"Alls same as Sarge tells it… See, I was with 1st Company then, 'n we 'ad th' balconies on the skyline's welded up tight, 'n the Colonel 'n his gang was up given the big preach to the thugs y'kno?"

The others exchanged looks of vague confusion at her terms, but didn't interrupt.

"I remember 'ere's one thugs 'n he's lazin' 'bout near where's the Colonel, who's all with him 'n his crew a'n they gots a look on the whole battle right? 'N all you know one second they's all firin' away, 'n th' next they's exhaust fumes, yeah?

"But there's this guy an' he's gota High Hiver look to 'im, and he's gone all chargin' out at the xenos. Wit' a sword, no less."

As the other troopers tried to decipher he low-hive dialect, she sat back, looking distant again.

"An' he killed, he did."

"With just his sword?" Nathaniel asked, skeptically.

"I've lost my squad twice to these xeno bastards. Ain't my curse I'm here today, though. It's my blessin,' that it is. That we're still here doin' our duty, and he's watchin' over us."

As the night went on, the newest recruits finally drifted to sleep, minds somewhat at ease knowing that in the battle to come, they had some kind of safety net, something or someone watching over them.

-------

Down the trench, amidst 6th Platoon's sleeping forms, a single man lay awake, watching the stars with lackadaisical disinterest. He yawned tiredly, mind entirely free and unworried. He'd listened with some humor to the story the Sergeant had told.

But he'd been at Hive Victorious, as well.

-------

Trooper Marco Huetella had taken his dream with a grain of salt.

He knew the dangers of the warp, and he knew sometimes men saw whatever they wanted to see. But he also knew that going to the Commissar with messages like 'the Emperor visited me in a vision last night,' lead either to executions or a frontline position, neither of which he wanted.

So he quietly went through the drop, and then, as he was with 1st Company at the time, set up on the balconies with the Regimental Staff.

All he had to do was wait. That much he knew. In his dream, The Emperor had undoubtedly come to him, he knew. He wasn't one of the religious freaks that seemed to be so few and far between, but how could he argue it?

It hadn't been an angel, or the golden armored beauty, the Godsend he'd been taught to serve. It was just a voice in the dark. It had told him he would face great adversity soon, and somehow the message was clear.

The Emperor wanted him to fight. Suddenly, as he woke, everything fell into place. For those few minutes he was utterly happy, because he could see everything in all directions in time. Everything fit.

So he was going to do it. As the brood of Tyranid Gargoyles swept over the officers, dragging them off into the air, screaming, he stepped forward, pulling his sword.

Without a thought he charged off the Hive side and into the air as the beast, the xeno thing, the winged bio-titan rose to face him, on mighty leather wings, its maw gaping and black and insatiable…

-------

For some reason, Marco found it odd he'd been afraid. Now he knew he hadn't been meant to die there. He stood and stretched his arms lazily.

So the long and short of it was he fought the thing into the ground, fighting like he never knew he could. The Emperor had chosen him for it, so how could he have failed? Back then he would've scoffed at a statement at that, but…

But now he knew better, he figured, twirling specks of crackling light about his fingers to pass the time. He was a psyker, now, and though he longer saw time laid before him, he felt so much bigger, but at the same time so much smaller. He felt he was really a part of the Universe.

Marco stepped carefully over the sleeping bodies, smiling carefully. He had a question before him, now. Had the Tyranid been the fight the Emperor meant for him? Why was he still alive to fight? The question was serious, but he met it with the no sense of urgency.

He could leave, if he wanted. The guard couldn't really stop him. He could go back to his family, his home, and just love life till he got bored…

He looked back then. The sergeant's message had been a little overblown, but maybe he was half right.

He'd be watching.


	2. The Iavarone Offensive: I

An earsplitting explosion rocked the trench, throwing mud up into the air around Guardsman Nathaniel's head. He'd lost all hearing, and he was sure his sight was next, with the after burn of artillery detonation lingering in the black of pre-dawn. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew what could.

Quickly, Nathaniel ducked down, charging blindly down the claustrophobic rows of earth towering over him. Last night with his squad it'd all seemed so mundane, but the nightmare he'd awoken to left his senses deadened. He slid to a stop by where he'd awoken only minutes before, frantically feeling for his vox-caster in the dark.

"This is Guardsman Nathaniel of the 31st regiment, 3rd platoon, forward support squad beta, do you read!?" he invariably screamed over the roar of ordinance. The chugging rhythm of heavy-weapons was his response over the caster. "Damn it!"

He looked up the trench as fire blew the wall inwards only metres down the way. The defensive emplacements were reduced to the shrapnel of blasted corrugated iron and hard wood planks. The barely audible whisper of incoming shells caused the guardsman's instincts to push him down to the mud as fire and light and noise roared over him. He shot up once it passed, peeking over the lip of the trench.

Above him the night was ablaze with explosions and tracer fire. The ominous whistle of doom just out of his sight in the bleak clouds reminded him how close he was, and would always be.

They'd all been fear stricken to be in the foremost trench, that they'd be the first to get hit. He could see out across no man's land, see the burning carcasses of APC's and forward emplacements.

But in a flash of explosive detonations, he saw the advancing clusters of red clad troops, making ground on the enemy lines.

"What the hell are they doing!? This is supposed to be a bloody defense!" he cried in confusion and dismay.

"Change o' orde's, 'at's what 'e says…" came the little drone of Guardsman Amendera's half-sane voice. Nathaniel glanced back at her.

She was standing straight up, a dreadfully easy target to enemy guns man. One arm dragged her grenade-launcher behind her in a death grip, while the other lay limp at her side, blown clean off at the elbow. She stared blankly out into the enemy lines, eyes glazed over in the numb sensation of pain killers and shock. Her pauldron and couter were blown off, leaving long, ugly gashes and shards of metal shrapnel. Her helmet had been forgotten elsewhere, revealing her shoulder length white hair, matted down with blood and dirt.

"Th' 'Startes a'comin', clear th' LZ 'at's what 'e says…"

Nathaniel grabbed her by the sides of her head, looking her straight in the eyes.

"Amendera, where's the rest of the platoon!?" he asked as calmly as he could. The woman just stared straight through him like he wasn't there.

"Change o' orde's, 'at's what 'e says…" she said again, being sure not to let herself forget.

"Fuck…" the vox-officer growled in frustration. Suddenly, he heard that fatal sound, and dived down, pulling Amendera's tense form under him.

Nathaniel went entirely deaf as another ordinance round hit home just above him in the trench, throwing the darkened row into a maelstrom of fire and explosive pressure. It passed in only moments, leaving the two blind and deaf in the dark.

The man rolled over, mouth open in a silent scream, cringing as he pulled 10 centimeters of metal from his shoulder in a gush of bodily fluids.

"Over 'ere! We've got men down!" came a loud, husky voice.

From the other end of the trench Medical Officer Geist and Guardsman Saul came, rushing towards the two, heads down, las-guns in hand. In a moment, Nathaniel was staring up into the pock marked face of Geist, his usually dull grey eyes full of adrenaline fueled energy.

In a sudden lapse in sound, the bombardment ended.

Nathaniel pushed the man off him, rising to his feet, pulling off his torn pauldron, dropping it in the mud. He plopped down, letting the older man wrap his wound, downing a few pain killers.

"Shit… Amendera…" Saul groaned, running a hand through his sweaty black hair, pacing in dismay. "She's not getting' up Doc…"

In a moment Geist was at her side. "Useless git! Outta me way!" He pushed the man aside, kneeling by the woman's bloody, pale, comatose form.

"C'mon Doc, get her back on her feet." Nathaniel grunted, tying off his dressing.

"She's lost alotta blood. Ain't much I can do save wrap the stump up… But she's no good fer combat." Geist declared, standing.

"Wh-what do you suggest we do?" Saul stuttered. Nathaniel shot him a venomous look. "Whadyou want?

"What do I want? You're the bloody second-in-command!" he spat.

"So!? Whassat mean, huh?" Saul spat back.

No one spoke as for a moment what Nathaniel was implying sunk in.

Chances were, with how close the bombardment had struck, Saul had just risen up in the world.

"There's no way outta this, huh…" he said. Nathaniel shook his head, disgusted at the complete lack of audacity in his new squad leader. "We've… We've gotta get 'er to help… There's n-no doubt… About it…" He said, staring down at the woman, fiddling nervously with his rifle.

"What 'bout the orde's sir? We're to advance, clear th' way fer th' 'Startes." Geist remarked, being sure his sergeant knew his options.

"No, we're under manned… Till we find th' rest o' th' platoon, we've gotta fall back." he said this with more surety, rising to his feet, slinging his las-gun over his shoulder, turning to his 'squad'. "Nathaniel, y' take Amendera n' follow my lead."

The man cringed in pain, taking Amendera's now limp, yet surprisingly fit, heavy body in his arms, following what could've been the remains of the once proud 3rd platoon into the dark of the trench.

-------

The forward command post was merely a widened section of the trench, back a half of a kilometer from the front lines, filed with boxes of ammo, tarantula automated defense turrets, sandbags, vox equipment, and several canvas tents. The muddy floor was covered by hard wood planks, to keep the armoured men of the Magnite 31st regiment from sinking in the black muck.

But when the enemies counter-attack reached it, the cluttered defenses became the downfall of its inhabitants.

If any attack had come on foot, it would've been seen and dispatched within the tight, winding corridors of the trench, torn to bits by rapid weapons fire and promethium fueled flame-throwers. If the attack had come on foot, it would have only been a matter of gun power, man power, and ammunition. That is, if the attack had come on foot.

But amidst the roar of artillery fire being sent and received from both ends, the Imperial Guard noticed far too late as massive flocks of terrible winged daemons descended upon the forward HQ. Weapons mounts were torn from their emplacements and men were dragged up into the air in ebon claws, unable to hide behind even the strongest defenses. The things moved far too fast to be hit with any weapon, heavy or light, and there were far too many for the few men carrying automatic or flame weapons to make any difference.

They came in as fast as a drop pod would, tearing the tents to shreds, ripping men apart. In the confusion and clutter, there was no running, or for that matter, fighting.

Guardsman Pyr saw this, watched desperate, screaming men go at the blackened, sooty things with their guns, watched them disappear, their limbs flung every which way in geysers of blood. He took a different approach.

Pyr stepped in, swinging his las-gun in a broad swoop, blindly bashing in a skull of one of the nearest things as it fed on a man's remains. Distantly he noted it didn't bleed. This was a subconscious observation of course, as he had very little time to think as he spun, his bayonet slicing the tendons of one reverse-jointed leg.

The thing howled a cry of pain as it toppled over, its front leg rendered useless. It was a massive abomination, a thin and boney thing almost like a cat, but black, looking as if it had been made of stone. Its hawk like head looked down at him as it lay on its back, its eyes almost radiating with blood lust. It let out another screech, revealing black, random rows of teeth.

Pyr realized that even though it was down, it was not out. It's three other talon tipped legs lashed out at him with force that could puncture a tank. It thrashed its leathery wings, hoping to topple him, to even the odds.

The man ducked out of the way, quickly putting three rounds through its skull, moving off as for a moment more it thrashed, and then died.

He saw more flying at him in the dark, barely silhouettes to him. He ducked down, rolling away from them, stabbing up into ones gut, oddly relieved as the other two moved off, beginning to cannibalize their wounded kin-beast.

Pyr whipped about, just in time to catch a beasts charge straight into his chest. It hit him, knocking the wind out of him, bringing him to the ground under it metres away.

The thing was nearly a metre and a half tall, bringing it up to Pyr's shoulder when he was standing. Its size was daunting, especially so when it's massive weight was atop him, its front legs pinning him down on his chest, restricting his movement. It looked down at him, its crooked teeth clamped together in a wicked parody of a sneer.

With a sudden burst of ferocity, it began to claw at him, shredding and tearing at his plastron. It knocked his helmet from his head, its furred limbs continuing to ravage him.

But the thing had underestimated Pyr's own prowess, as he pulled the bayonet from his rifle nearby, slicing its throat, rolling it off him, and then coming down on the thrashing black thing, stabbing and stabbing, so unsatisfied by the lack of human desperation, but so amused by its pain stricken screams. He rose from it battered and bloodied, his front a mess of shredded armour, which he tore off, revealing his scarred, slim torso. He glanced around grinning in his sudden pride, knife in hand. There were but a few left. Most had fled it seemed, leaving only wreckage and torn bodies. The five left surrounded him in a circle, giving him a good three metres.

Pyr was gasping in fatigue and excitement, and it was a sickly, rasping sound, but also the only sound, as the ranks broke and the alpha of the daemon brood approached him.

It wasn't taller than the others, but it was obvious that it was feared and respected. The others were suddenly quiet in its presence, as it snapped at them; its hawkish head framed by a main of fire that rose centemetres and blew off in the slight wind. From its torso hung various objects like chains, skulls, rugged, bloody stumps, and little hooked weapons. It raised its head to him in challenge.

"C'mon bitch!" Pyr growled.

It charged, and without hesitation, Pyr met it in a bloody clash of animalistic fury.


	3. The Iavarone Offensive: II

Colonel Borislav slumped back in his chair. He'd made a grave mistake that day.

He'd seen the apparent weakness in the enemy; he'd seen it stumble… Their attack was broken, and he'd made his move, letting his force become less of the prey, and more of the predator.

Where had he gone wrong?

They'd rallied from nowhere, sudden ordinance strikes coming from zones they'd already cleared. He'd lost his armour first, and then he knew it was only a matter of time for the infantry.

And the air strike! It was a catastrophe; they had taken all his holds on the front lines, all his men, all those resources… As the Colonel fell back into his chair in the command bunker, all those clicks back from the real fighting, his mind was contested. He knew it would be the end of him. If his force even survived that day, his reputation would be forever sullied.

'Damn it, it was just supposed to be a defense,' he thought, cursing himself inwardly, 'I fell right into their twisted traitor paws…'

But then he supposed the whole action had been an ingenious one.

'Besides,' he thought standing, 'now they've got the Astartes to deal with.'

"Sir, the last platoons have reported in at the rally points. Order's?" Came a voice at his back, from the chaos of his command room.

"Let's give the Marines something to work with. Tell them to advance," he responded, his voice distant and broken. The officer hesitated, sensing the weakness. Still, he knew his place.

"Who, sir? What units?"

"All of them. Every last man."

-------

"This is such bullocks," grumbled the larger man, shuffling through the mud.

"Quit your whinin' trooper. Want the bastards to hear us?" his sergeant whispered harshly in response. Sergio watched from the back, keeping his head down below the walls of the trench, and his eyes open. The night had not gone as planned, and he had to be prepared to for anything.

His squad, sitting right next to the No Man's Land, had been awoken by the screams of dying men and the phantom cry of artillery whistling through the air. They'd scattered amidst flying mud and veils of smoke. Out of nowhere, the Lieutenant and his Commissarial Staff had called 3rd Platoon on, the whole 2nd Company leaping up over the trench and charging into the oncoming fire.

Suppressing fire had been limited, but within seconds, seconds of horror and the bursting, flaming deaths of Leman Russ and Chimera tanks, they had dived into the enemies front trench, bayonets stabbing into thrashing forms and laser retorts striking into the night.

It had been over in maybe five minutes. Still, the artillery kept up it's conversation with their abandoned defensive positions, and the battle raged on, but 2nd Company swept forward in silence through the empty Rebel positions. Whole bunkers lay abandoned, save the odd man or two.

Sergio counted up his men, as they took a left into a low command post. The command squad was fully intact, as were 1st, 2nd, and 4th squads. He recognized faces but the names were enigma to him, save a few of the sergeants and their corporals.

5th had melded with 6th squad, but there was barely 6 men between them. No one could account as to whether they had simply gotten lost, or were blown apart in their sleep by ordinance.

3rd squad, his squad, was in a sad state. His two corporals were nowhere to be seen. Same went for his vox - operator and weapons specialist. Even then a nameless fifth member was missing, as well. He didn't know their names or even their faces, and he wondered if that should bother him.

So he was left with but four men, himself not included. They all trotted on in silence. He wondered if the story the night before left a bitter taste in their mouths. This battle hadn't been quite as heroic as that one was.

He had also neglected to mention the merciless deaths his men had suffered by Tyranid claws. But that wasn't what they needed to hear.

Sergio sat near the back of the mud chamber, walled with wooden planks. There were a few tables and chairs, but it had been emptied of anything important. He had to wonder what the Hell had happened to the enemy force. From the sound of it, the battle had migrated over to friendly areas.

But how was that even possible, he wondered? The 31st had swept through No Man's Land. How could the Rebels have gotten past them?

The men all crowded around, as the sergeant chatted quietly with their squads, and the staff spoke off to the side. 3rd squad sat silent.

"What do you think, sarge? About Saul, and the rest?" piped up one of the remaining men. Sergio glanced down out him dimly, perched up on a table. He looked blanked, unreceptive of the truth. Sergio chuckled quietly, looking away.

What was he supposed to do, lie to the young, eager recruit? Keep his damn spirits up? Wasn't worth the trouble.

"I'm sure they're well, Kaleb," said another, a smaller recruit, his face still adorned with a dim smile, albeit an assured looking one. "The Emperor protects, he does."

The first, Kaleb, fell quiet.

"O' Emperor of Mankind, send Your gaze to me with benevolence, watch over Your servant and soldier, and protect me from peril," he went on. Sergio rolled his eyes with a grimace as the young recruit continued to recite litanies quietly. Kaleb just closed his eyes.

"Quiet yourself, Andus," growled a larger man, Christoph, sitting off to the side with his brother, Markus, a tall and lanky fellow. "Emperor can't fucking hear you in here."

"The Emperor is always watching, Markus. Always listening," Andus went on, sounding quite sure of himself.

Sergio stood and walked off to the door of the command bunker, staring out into the pitch black, punctuated every so often by the explosion of an artillery round or the light of a las gun. He could hear a heavy bolter roaring in the distance, see the strange shadows cast down into the trench by a burning wreck nearby.

He tried not to, but he could see the Rebel's staring faces, crushed into the mud. They looked like him. They weren't twisted or covered in sigils or what have you, but normal men, in earth coloured fatigues. They weren't even soldiers, or guard, just disgruntled citizens. Just disgruntled fucking citizens.

That's what half his squad had died for. But hey, what else was there to die for?

Sergio stared blankly at one of them and wondered if they knew what they had signed themselves up for. They might have been normal, but what of the things that circled over head like vultures? What of that? Unnatural, that's what it was. Was any of this worth it, over some unfair taxes, or whatever the Hell it might have been?

Sergio sat in the mud, and lit up a cig, blowing smoke into the dark. The Defense of Hive Victorious had only been a few weeks ago, a planet over, on the Hive World of Igneus Silicus. He'd lost his whole squad there, and he couldn't even remember them.

The recruits had shown up just a few days later as they sat on this damned rural world, waiting to ship back out to Cadia. He'd gotten his recruits, and in minutes they were in the trenches, ready to fight off a civilian militia, the people they'd been protecting.

But so things went, right?

"Sergio, eh. Lieutenant got through to the Colonel. We're moving up," grumbled another sergeant.

"Huh. How's th' fight on th' friendly side of things?" Sergio said over his shoulder.

"Pretty grim. The Rebels are gone but their daemons are hitting our command points. We don't know how they're doing it, but their artillery is still running, from places 1st Company's already cleared. Shit's gone wacky, pretty much."

Sergio stood with a sigh, turning back into the confines of the command bunker.

"Alright, I know things haven't gone according to plan, but we can still pull through this. We've got a job to do, 2nd Company," the Lieutenant paused, unsure of how to present the information. "The Imperial Shadows are inbound. Command needs us to clear an LZ near the enemy's central positions."

Murmurs of surprise, relief and even restrained fear shot through the room, but quickly the more sober veterans of the company shouted the recruits back into order.

"Don't worry about any of this Chaos business, men. Their motivations are their problem. We have a simple job, and soon this'll be over with," he went on, turning to each of the squads of his platoon and giving orders.

"Sergio, I know you're under strength, but I need you in this one regardless, alright?" The Lieutenant, a disheveled looking man, offered. "Sweep around the back, and up into the bunkers overlooking the main command post. We need you for suppressing fire."

"Yessir," Sergio said, motioning to his troops. "You heard the man. With me," Sergio said, ducking low into the trench, and racing off into the night.

-------

3rd Squad got to see firsthand what had become of the rebels.

The five figures remaining in 3rd squad huddled low atop a mud covered bunker, hiding behind sensors arrays and inactive gun emplacements. As Markus found a good position, laying prone on the ground, his las-rifle modified with an extended barrel and scope, the others looked down on the scene.

It was a large opening amidst the trenches, something akin to where a command post would be placed were they the Guard. But instead, the low area was filled with broken and trampled bodies, centered all around an opaque black pit in the ground. From the far entrance, leading away into the Rebel's land, the Rebel Army entered the area one by one, each nonchalantly laying themselves down atop the bodies, all around the pit.

"Chaos scum… This is… Unholy…" Andus panted, running a shaky hand through his short black hair, setting his helmet beside him. "Emperor protect us…"

"Shut your mouth, ya runt," Markus' larger brother Christoph whispered harshly. Andus silently continued mouthing the litanies, as Sergio went to Christoph's side.

"Find a target?" he asked. Markus barely breathed his response.

"No sir, there's no semblance of leadership… They're just a mob. I wouldn't know who to shoot."

"See any dangerous looking weapons amongst them?"

"Well that's the thing," Markus went on, still looking down into the throng through his scope, "beyond the odd las-gun or so, they're unarmed. It's like they just laid their weapons down. They expect to die here."

Sergio nodded pensively, looking down amongst them himself. "Well, shoot whoever looks dangerous."

"Yessir," Markus responded dimly, sounding far away.

"Sir, we've got fire down there!" Christoph laughed, as las-guns called from the far side of the clearing. Sergio and his group waited for some response as the 3rd Platoon swept in, slashing guts with bayonets and burning bodies with laser rounds. But as the swathes of men filtered in, they stopped short in the realization that not a single rebel was taking up arms against them. Some stopped for a moment to kick or prod the men, to find them simply falling to the ground, silent.

"What the Hell is this?" Christoph grumbled, confused. "They're not even fighting! What happened to that shit from before?"

"Quiet," Markus whispered, eyes intently searching the crowds. Silence fell over the platoon as they filled in the gaps in the enemy ranks, walking between them as they lay down quietly. Occasionally, as the Lieutenant hung back to speak with his cohorts, a las retort would burn through the air, and another corpse would fall, adding to the carpet of bodies, ground into the mud.

"What are they up too?" Kaleb asked quietly.

"Best not to speculate at the acts of Chaos, Kaleb," Andus responded. "Nothing they do is ever wholesome or right. Every little act is always something more… sinister."

That's about when the screaming started.


	4. Rembrancings of Mr Stant: I

Martha, My Love,

The months drag on since I've left. I admit time seems dulled without you. The sounds of the warp around my ship are nerve-wracking, and during my darkest dreams I cling to your memory for comfort. The day I return to you, the day we wed will be the day I am happiest, the day these months of suffering will be validated.

I ask myself if the work is worth it, and sometimes I find myself lacking. Yea, I am shamed to admit it, but I feel you are the only soul I can trust. Is this worth the pains of travel, of distance, of isolation?

The Imperium needs my kind… Without art, where does a society so high as ours find itself? Our antiquity said, "Give us your huddled masses," though I know I need not quote history to you. These huddled masses, so in need of protection from outside forces of the alien and unknown, and of simple shelter, and of food, are in so much more need, this you know. They need guidance; they need purpose, as we all do. They need my work to show them the right of the Imperium, the beauty of our God-Emperor's armies, the sacrifices they face with so much zeal and faith. The need it, like sunlight and water. If not for that, how would they ever know that meanings of the Emperor's teachings of selflessness, of humanity? Would they teach themselves?

I must apologize for ranting, and alas on a topic we've spoken on in length. But I find myself, cramped in the smallest corners of this blasted cabin of this blasted ship that stinks of sweat and iron, in need of reaffirmation. I begin to question whether it is worth it, if I sacrifice too much. Maybe my parents were right; maybe I don't have what it takes for the brutal life of an artist.

In short, my dearest Martha, I miss you, and love you. I miss your face, your smile. I miss your hair, and your skin, and your voice, and your smell. It consumes me. I count the days, my dear.

Yours Always,

Vadim

P.S.

In my downtrodden attitude, I regretted to mention my fortune, Emperor forgive me that. My requests for attachment to a frontline group have been granted; my quest to see the heart of our beloved guard has gone a step further. I don't know where or when, but I assure these men and women's genuine loyalty and faith will provide perfect work for my portfolio.

--------

"Sergeant."

"Mh?" Sergio grumbled, glancing up. He was slumped into a clothe folding chair, outside a medical tent, his boots and armor mud covered and worn. He covered his eyes against the blaring sun. "Sir, I mean."

"The man's an artist. Make him welcome," the officer said offhandedly, motioning to the man at his side, garbed in unfamiliarly gaudy clothes. He seemed overdressed, pale and unhealthy. Sergio had come to expect this from higher classes, but not so young. He smiled dimly and offered his hand to Sergio, who grimaced distastefully.

"Umm, Sergeant, what was it, then…?" the man asked politely. Sergio managed to stand himself up, teetering precariously. He came a full head and shoulders over the other, younger man.

"Sergio Tartakovsky," Sergio responded, picking up his helmet from where it rested on the ground, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He walked on past the man.

"Sergeant Tartakovsky. Did your superiors inform you of me?"

"No," he said, pushing past several men, sitting in the relative shade beside a bunker, playing cards. "Should they have?"

"Well," the man continued, beginning to recite an obviously prepped speech, "I've come to experience the true soul of humanity. The sacrifice of self that such normal men and women as your fellow soldiers give for your people."

"So what, a journalist, 'r ya?"

"A photo-journalist, yes," he went on. Sergio rolled his eyes, pushing aside the entrance into the darkened confines of his squad's tent. Quiet figures glanced up from their bunks as they entered. "I'm Vadim Stant, by the way."

"Huh. Wanna take some pictures, right?"

"I would like to, Sergeant. Maybe interview some of your men?"

"Uh huh. Well," Sergio began, turning to the man, running his hand over his bald head, "we're packing up and headin' out. So make it quick, right?"

"Uhm, right. Yes," Vadim said eagerly, eyeing the troops that stared up at him. He smiled at young faces, albeit tired and weary looking. "Shall we?"

-------

"Excuse me, you on the end, could you move in a bit?"

The taller man scowled noticeably, but stepped closer to the group. The others stood silent and grim looking, gathered around their regained member. Vadim shook his head in frustration as he set up his camera before them.

The shot was good, yes. They stood framed by the Medicae tent to their backs, lighters and transports zipping past overhead. And some distance behind them, Vadim had the luck to catch an armored column bolstered by Leman Russ tanks rolling by. It was the embodiment of the Imperial Guard's might, all the way down to it's lowliest infantrymen.

But the squad looked pitiful. There was a genuine feeling of weariness about them that he just couldn't understand. Not a one smiled, nor spoke amongst themselves. The only two that bothered spoke only to each other, their backs to the eight other guard.

He had expected more… Spirit, he supposed. The girl in the middle of them, Amendera, had an arm in a sling, having recently emerged from the tent with a new mechanical arm. He had expected them to meet her with praise and joy, but they looked so damn downtrodden.

"Look, can we get some, uh, merriment, here?"

Vadim was responded to with blank looks, and Sergio simply chuckled, blowing smoke from his nose. The heat of the agri world was stifling.

"Merriment, then?" Sergio asked, an edge of humor upon him.

"Yes, I would appreciate it," Vadim responded with a frown.

"Then let's get some fuckin' merriment, consider it an order!" Sergio sneered, gesturing dramatically to his squad mates, staggering in place like a drunk.

The majority of them shifted uncomfortably, eyes averted. Vadim sighed. This was certainly not the soul of the Guard for which he searched.


	5. The Iavarone Offensive: III

No one was quite sure how to respond to it, but there was much movement regardless.

The men filling the low clearing scrambled and scattered every which way, black smoke, the flash of lightning, and the crack of thunder filling the area. It was some sort of unholy storm that seemed to come from nowhere all of the sudden, blinding and deafening the men in the area.

Unable to regroup or respond, the men were helpless when the bulk of the rebel force retaliated, ambushing from every possible angle, automatic solid shell weapons fire tearing into the thrashing clouds. The screams of the dying and of horror, and the sprays of blood were almost masked by the unnatural weather pattern.

3rd squad looked down upon this, jumping into action. Without needing to be told, Markus swept his line of sight all over the groups, Christoph pointing out likely targets, acting as a spotter.

"Who the Hell do I shoot!?" Kaleb cried, eyes wild in terror, las-rifle searching amidst the mass of enemy infantry for a target. Andus huddled silently behind the bunker's raised lip, whispering silent prayers and making the sign of the Aquila, eyes closed.

"Just keep yer damn 'ead down," Sergio growled, pulling him down into cover with him. "Keep outta th' way."

"I can't just do nothing," Kaleb said, sounding scared and helpless. Sergio ignored his pathetic outcry.

"Your rifle wouldn't even shoot that far," Markus grumbled, not yet shooting himself. "More importantly, there doesn't seem to be any order here, Sarge. No leadership."

Sergio noted that though Markus spoke up over the raging sound of battle, his voice was even and calm. He peeked up over the cover cautiously.

His squads position a top the bunker over looked the whole of the half-kilometer clearing, filled fully by then with black fog and flashes of light. All of 3rd Platoon had disappeared into it. He glanced around the edges of the area, seeing a mass of rag tag looking men, carrying various weapons, firing blindly into the mess.

The sergeant let go of his surprise at their numbers; he had figured most of these men would be dead by now. But how could the raid on the defensive areas be explained? And what opposition was the rest of 2nd Company meeting?

"Who's leadin' these bastards?"

As the question left Sergio's lips, the screams rose to a crescendo within the miasma. The rebels ceased fire and for a minute there was silence, besides the sounds within the storm.

"See anything?" Sergio asked. Markus merely shook his head. The men ducked down suddenly as a red armored man was flung screaming towards them, smashing against the permacrete of the bunker wall. "The fuck is this? Give me something, trooper!"

Markus fell silent, and the five men looked down through the path in the smoke to see the figure amidst the blood shed.

The thing was dauntingly tall, standing head and shoulders above each Guardsman around it. The armor it was garbed in was ornate but archaic looking, covered in what could've been murals or scripture. Its beauty was dimmed by thousands of years of rust and decay and battle, reducing what was once obviously yellow and blue armor to the color of copper. In its gauntlets it held a bolt pistol of unrecognizable design, and upon its head were two long and straight protrusions, with a likeness to horns.

In the small clearing created by the thrown trooper, the five saw it twirl and glide from man to man, the pistol spitting death, the empty hand crushing skulls and chest through armor. Despite its size and bulk it moved with certainty and undeniable speed.

The five men sat frozen as they watched it, a solemn silence falling over the rebels. They knew it for what it was; Chaos Sorcerer, fallen of the Astartes.

"Emperor save us… Fuckin' kill it, trooper," Sergio hissed.

"With pleasure," Markus said, lining the shot up as the smoke began to rematerialize. The rifle spat a single line of concentrated red light out at the figure. All five watched again, Markus looking up awestruck over his rifle, as the thing whipped around to face them for a second, before the smoke obscured him.

"Did we get it?" Christoph asked. With a collective cry, the answer appeared as a resounding 'no,' yet another dead guardsman being hurled towards them, screaming. The smoke parted violently as if pushed by a wall, the sorcerer turned towards them, the visage of his helm focused upon them, his hand raised, as if projecting some unknown power.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Christoph roared, turning about and jumping from the bunker, closely followed by the four others. A deafening explosion of red light came down where they once hid, raining hot stone on them as they landed in the mud.

"Move!" Sergio ordered, not needing to say it twice, the five dashing off into the trenches, retracing their footsteps. Sergio watched from the back of the crowd as the men before him raced through the winding blackness, back towards the bunker from which they started.

Around the next corner the bunker lay, and as they ran towards it, arcs of gunfire dogged them from above. As the roar of a heavy bolter began, the five slid into the lit but empty structure. They hid their heads down under the firing holes, chips of permacrete raining every which way as bolts tore into the walls and through the open door.

In a momentary lull in the fire, Markus and Christoph swung their weapons up and opened fire, Christoph's gun spitting rapid fire death, Markus's long pattern rifle picking off gunners every second. Quickly, Andus caught on, his own rifle blaring, his voice rising to sing confident prayers to the Emperor.

"Now you shoot, boy," Sergio ordered, pulling Kaleb up by his arm, opening fire with his own rifle.

The phantom shapes of rebels emerged from cover and fell under the return fire, but always seemed to have three to replace them. The numbers kept growing, and Sergio knew they were digging in, most likely setting up auto-cannons or mortars or something to tear his squad out of the bunker.

"Behind us!" Kaleb cried, as a group of rebels stepped into the bunker. Markus and Christoph were quick upon them, though, Markus's knife slicing throats and wrists, the butt of Christoph's gun smashing people into the ground. A few rounds ended their fight, the two taking positions by the door, firing in overlapping fields.

"We're damn well surrounded, Sarge," Christoph laughed.

"We're fucking dead!" Kaleb sobbed, collapsing to his knees in the cover. Sergio hauled him back to his feet.

"Not yet yer not, now be a man and keep fighting!" He roared, prompting a horrified nod from the shaking form of Kaleb. As Sergio looked out the window, he saw the hopelessness of it. The rebels lined every angle around them, and 3rd Platoon was nowhere to be seen. He knew they could hold out for maybe a few minutes, maybe, but they faced the combined might of what appeared to be a full army, rag tag as it might have been.

He knew that for the third time in his career as a guardsman, his squad was in a bad place. He doubted he would survive this time, let alone his men.

As he thought this, there was a strange feeling of relief, but he set it aside, steeling himself in the face of death, as fire and light rained through dark towards him and his four men. Blood and death and battle lay behind him with Christoph's confident laughs and Markus's stoic attitude, and certain doom laid before him, which he faced with lasgun and his men Kaleb and Andus.

They were young, he knew, glancing over, as he shoved another power pack into his gun. They wouldn't appreciate the beauty of it. At least they'd die innocent.

The irony of what happened next still made Sergio grin, when he was hammered.

The frontline of the rebels seemed to explode outwards, literally. They weren't so much charging as being flung every which way, some in pieces, some on fire, others running about screaming as a second and third frag-rocket detonated amidst their numbers. Sergio and his squad turned to watch, captivated, as the hundred or so rebels began to advance at a run, dropping weapons and pushing each other aside in a mad dash for the bunker.

"Kill 'em all, boys!" Sergio laughed, not sure exactly why this was happening, but more than happy to except his fortune. They hadn't enough firepower to take them all, but it was obvious the rebel ambushers were no longer looking for a fight. In moments, the five saw why they ran.

Atop the hill, silhouetted by the flood lights of some vehicle, stood a single black monolithic figure, its sheer size awe-inspiring. Arcs of bolter fire flew through the air behind it, as it swept its gaze over the fleeing humans. It hefted its enormous gun; a belt fed thing attached to its back, and the heavy-bolter roared, tearing men in half in little wet explosions of blood.

At this, 3rd squad stood back and ceased to fight.

-------

The five men sat in the corner, all eyes on the Imperial Shadow, the Space Marine, as he walked back and forth through the bunker at a ponderous pace. They knew he was speaking over his vox system to his squad most likely, but they couldn't hear a word of him. Nor would they dare ask questions.

The Astarte left a strange impression on the squad, excluding Sergio, who had fought with them twice before. In some ways, he lived up to the propaganda of the Angels of Death; he was massive, with an undeniably powerful build, covered in matte black armor, his face a visage that spoke of his enemy's destruction.

But beyond that he was curiously austere. His armor was not ornate, but instead a simple black, with silver pauldrons, back pack, weapons, and helmet. From there the armor was obviously worn after years of battle; it bore scars and pits and in places the black or silver had been damaged back to grey. It even appeared that some of the pieces were mismatched, or colored differently. He appeared strangely rag tag, thrown together.

And though the five knew he wasn't human, he seemed very plain. He wasn't outrageously brilliant seeming, nor did he shout litanies, or take trophies of his kills, or acknowledge anyone or anything, now that the fighting was over. He paced calmly like a human, but his demeanor was akin to a machine.

Beyond that, there was a feeling of anxiety among the five, this Sergio knew. This Astarte could kill all of them. He thought nothing of it, or of them. Sergio didn't blame him.

Sergio turned to slap Kaleb upside the head as he began to hyperventilate once more. "Calm down, jumpy bastard. Th' fightin's ove'."

Kaleb fell quiet once more, sitting cross legged with his head slumped low, whimpering. Sergio didn't spare him another word. He'd seen it before, from so many of the younger recruits. They thought they were adults, at 20 to 25, that they could face anything like men. Sergio still couldn't do that as he stared down his 40's. Or at least he figured he was getting there… he didn't count years anymore.

Despite their earlier toughness and vigor, Markus and Christoph both sat silent, eyes fixated on the Marine, their looks somewhere between anxiety, terror, and awe.

Sergio looked over with a scowl at the only squad member who seemed unaffected.

"The Emperor is our guiding light, a beacon of hope for humanity in a galaxy of darkness…" Andus went on, repeating the Libation to the Emperor, that ever present, pretentious and assured grin on his face, his eyes closed, and the sign of the Aquila on his hands. Sergio shrugged. At least someone had a healthy coping mechanism, he figured, taking a swig from his canteen, relishing the burn of the alcohol.

"3rd Squad," the marine said, turning to them, finally. Sergio nearly jumped out of his skin, not because of how the voice sounded, but simply that the marine spoke. The sound was fairly human, and emptied of emotion. It was a grating monotone.

"Yes?" Sergio piped up.

"Sergeant, 2nd Company's gathering back at the designated HQ. Report in there," he said, sounding like he was giving an order, but not really caring either way.

"What of 3rd Platoon?" Sergio asked, cringing immediately after, expecting to be answered with a back handed swipe from the marine's gauntlet.

"Losses are minimal," he responded. After a second, Sergio spoke again, still sitting.

"And what was that the rebels summoned?" At this the marine was silent for a moment.

"Chaos," he said, stating the obvious, "and not your concern. Report in with 2nd Company." The marine turned away and jogged off, out of the bunker's lights and into the night beyond. After a few seconds, the remains of 3rd Squad stood, and turned off, shambling back into the trenches.

-------

"Well, you folks sure look lost."

Nathaniel turned sluggishly, supported by Corporal Geist, to see Trooper Pyr walking their way, stripped down to his camo pants, holding only a knife and las pistol. He looked grim and spiteful as ever, the normal look of sarcastic humor in his eyes. He walked towards them and examined the group.

"And how'd you fuck up this time?" He asked, turning to Saul. Saul glanced around for support but could merely stammer for an answer.

"It was- Pyr, I mean it's not my fault, it was the rebels," he said, mustering some strength in his voice.

"Oh yeah?" Pyr laughed, circling past the group in the trench, eyeing Amendera's comatose form on the makeshift stretcher, her stump wrapped. "Doesn't look like you've done much since, though, does it?"

"Watch yer mouth talkin' to a superior, troope'," Geist said sternly, staring Pyr down. Pyr nodded with a smile and kept walking.

"So what's the plan, Corporal?" he said, still walking away. Saul jogged up to speak with him.

"We're going back to the forward command. Amendera will die if we don't," Saul said, sounding more confident. Pyr smiled once more, stopping to talk.

"That's a no go. Forward post was hit pretty badly. You won't find much there to help. Next idea."

Pyr waited patiently as Saul came up short. Geist laid Nathaniel aside, walking up to them. "'Nough of yer crap, Pyr. Eithe' help us carry Amendera, or get th' 'ell outta our way." Again Pyr nodded without a word, going back to the stretcher. With Saul's help, they lifted the woman, and headed off, keeping their heads carefully below the trench.

The sounds of battle had all but ceased, except in the far distance of enemy lines. The sound of entry thrusters could be heard, a sound that filled Saul and Nathaniel with a dim hope, knowing that the Astartes had arrived. Pyr walked quietly, humming a shanty to himself.

"I'm honestly surprised," Pyr spoke up after a few minutes.

"Mm?" Geist humored him, weary of his biting wit.

"That you're all not dead, considering Saul's position as leader," Pyr asided, grinning at the man. Saul's face screwed up into a look of rage, and he dropped the stretcher to point an accusing finger at Pyr.

"You shut your damn mouth, trooper! I'm your fucking superior, you got that!?" he shouted, facing up to Pyr's mocking smile.

"Damn it boy, watch your temper!" Geist hissed from behind. He moved Amendera back onto the stretcher, Nathaniel slumping against the trench wall.

"No, I think it's good for him," Pyr said in mock sincerity. "Maybe you want to work out some daddy issues, huh? Maybe you want someone you can be on top of, like he was with you?"

As Saul finally leapt forth, his eyes wild in anger, his fist rose to bring the unaffected Pyr down, Nathaniel cut in with a shout.

"Enough!" He said, stepping between the two. He looked Saul in the eyes. "Corporal, with respect, be the fucking squad leader, please." He said, standing there till Saul backed off, back to the stretcher.

"And Pyr," Nathaniel began, putting a finger in his face as warning. He stood there for a second, unable to find the words for a correct argument in his dulled state. "Just enough, alright?"

With that, the group went on into the dark, destination undetermined.

"Oh, you are a scary one, Mr. Freitag," Pyr said, carrying the stretcher from the back of the line.

"Smug bastard," Saul snarled under his breath, as the trotted off in the mud.


	6. Rembrancings of Mr Stant: II

Night fell hard on the planet, cold winds ripping through the plains, despite the unbearable heat of earlier. For this, 3rd squad sat silently around a small fire, Vadim longing for it's warmth. Alas, he was not a member of their family, and he wouldn't intrude. But then, he wondered if any of them were a member of this 'family.'

He sat maybe three yards away in the dark, sitting stop his pack and jotting down notes of his findings amongst them. His feelings were surprisingly mixed.

At one point, he was able to see the majesty of the Guard's efficiency, and of its sheer size. Within the several hours of his following and photographing the squad, the whole few kilometer base they had established had been packed down to mere tents. All the real equipment, and the tanks even, had been brought back into orbit. As he looked out into the dark, little points of light marked all across the land into the distance, each one a group of soldiers. That thought was daunting.

He was also confounded by this group, though. Where was this spirit he searched for? It had taken him two hours to even get one good shot from them, and even that was staged. It left him curious.

"Mr. Stant," came a voice. Vadim jumped at the sound, the cold raspy noise emitted from the dark behind him.

"Yes?" he stammered, whipping around to face the man. He was only a little taller than Vadim, but visibly larger, though still scrawny for Guard standards. His red armor was surprisingly new and clean looking, despite having, only days before, experienced what he understood to have been quite a battle.

"I saw you off on your own and figured you might enjoy company," the man said, sitting beside him. "My name is Pyr Tchaikovsky."

"Pyr, yes. I remember you from earlier," Vadim said, shaking his hand. The man had been quiet as the rest of the squad during the pictures.

"I hope your work isn't too lackluster from today." Vadim chuckled.

"Unfortunately so. No offense to you, but there is a lack of spirit in this squad," Vadim commented, hoping not to overstep his boundaries. Pyr nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the others.

"Too true. A sad fact, I think."

"But why? I always figured the Guard to be more, how to say, eager. Are you all like that?"

"No, not at all," Pyr said, "but you have to understand the circumstance. Here we are, just emerging from a bloody defense of our own Hive World, and then as we stop for recruits, we find ourselves attacked by the people we've been protecting, and on the recruits own home world." Vadim stopped to write some of that down, and Pyr paused respectfully.

"Go on." Pyr nodded.

"You know, the young ones, most of them are from here. This place is a prime recruiting planet."

"It must be a shock."

"Yes, most likely. I can't speculate, though," Pyr paused to down some unknown liquid from his canteen. "But I can tell you the sergeant isn't helping. He seems a bit too distant."

"So what of the Corporal? Geist?"

"Oh, well, he's an odd story. You see, he has been offered command long ago; in fact, he would be the company captain by now, if not for his own wishes to stay with the front line troops. He's got a good affect on morale, though the Sergeant's drain on it is probably equally effective."

As Vadim continued to write, Pyr went on. "May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Stant?"

"Of course."

"How did you come about to this? You're not a fighting man, that much is obvious, nor a Magnite man. We have very distinct ethnic groups, you see. I can tell."

"You got me," Vadim smiled. "Being here was chance. I'm actually from Terra. My calling has always been art, and to really see the Imperium, I knew I'd have to leave its heart to finds its soul," he paused, "if that makes any sense."

"It does, actually."

"I'm glad. But I admit I had hoped to see the trenches, to the south. Where the battle actually happened."

Pyr frowned. "Well, there are reasons that didn't happen. The Guard might make for good art, but I'll tell you what you'd find there would hurt our citizenry's fragile sensibilities."

Vadim nodded in understanding. "I think it's important for people to really know what you go through, though."

"They don't want to know. It's offensive, immoral."

"I don't think it is," Vadim said, shifting to raise a hand in verbal defense. "I think that it's the necessary work. Good work, I might add." Pyr cocked his head curiously, as if weighing that.

"True. But sometimes such images can do harm, not do good for us."

"I'm sorry, but I disagree here. You killed not men, but traitors, rebels, Chaos. They deserved it, and it was righteous."

Pyr stayed quiet, smiling. "We'll agree to disagree, then?"

Vadim nodded, writing more. Pyr stared down at his pad, and Vadim glanced up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend; just taking notes."

"Never mind it. What, may I ask, are you writing?"

"That the women over there is watching me," he joked, motioning over to the unwelcoming glare Amendera gave him. And that you're surprisingly well spoken. I didn't expect it from a guard. If you have time, I'd like to hear your story."

Pyr fell quiet, managing a half smile after a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stant. It's quite a long one, and the hour grows short. I must depart."

"Then perhaps we'll meet again?"

"Perhaps," Pyr said, walking off into the dark, towards his group. "But for your notes, if I might add?"

"Yes, please."

"They were men, Mr. Stant." Vadim was quiet.

"Who?"

"The rebels. They were men."

-------

Magnite 31st Regiment, 2nd Company, 3rd Platoon, 3rd Squad

Lead by a Sergeant Sergio Tartakovsky, this squad has suffered through many a battle. Since Sergio's advancement to leadership shortly after his enlistment, the squad has seen complete loss of manpower twice, save Sergio. Both of these events were at significant actions, certifying 3rd Squad's reputation for survival through harsh odds. All members have survived the most recent engagement, a veritable trial by fire for the new recruits and transferees.

The following, to provide some context for all of my unedited work, are my notes on the subjects, as requested by the publisher.

Sergio is a prime example of a small time leader. He bares the marks of a veteran of the Magnite soldiery; his head is shaven, his face adorned with scarring, his armor pitted and scarred to match. He is of a Magna IV racial group; his eyes are bright green, and his hair is most likely naturally white, his skin probably very pale by birth. After all these years of battle, though, his skin is tanned and darkened, one particularly notable scar arcing across his cheek, and up into his scalp. His attitude towards his troops is sorry, despite his heroic reputation. He seems distant and uncaring towards them, even after the apparent revival of their heavy weapons specialist, Amendera. This behavior confuses the recruits also, who seem to look to him for some kind of guidance and validation that he is unable or unwilling to give at this point in time.

Of the several other veterans of the squad there are some other interesting characters. I personally find Corporal Geist to be the most interesting. He is an older guardsman, late 40's, of Magna III decent, giving him darker skin and black hair, and ice blue eyes. He shows a rough care and loyalty to his men that Sergio does not. I'm surprised even to see this Corporal at such a low rank, when he could be leading the whole Company, as far as I am concerned.

There are two brothers, Markus and Christoph, who have seen battle before. They are obviously of Magna III decent, like Geist. I speculate that while this gives them a sense of community to the men they fight and will die with, it also give them a strange elitist attitude. They elevate themselves over the other squad mates, I feel, because they come from the ruthless death world that they do. They often only speak amongst themselves. Markus is particularly quiet and brooding, an intense, tall and lanky figure. His brother is slightly shorter, but quite bulkier, a cocky, assured attitude about him.

The other veteran, Amendera, is an ex-ganger, whom I prefer not to speak in depth of. I was unaware the lengths the guard went to procure soldiery. She is obviously disturbed. I believe the term is Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Regardless, she is a small, fit, and young woman with shoulder length white hair and green eyes. As I met these soldiers, she was being released from Medicae, her left arm replaced with a surprisingly well kept mechanical limb. I thought the following celebration would lead to great pictures, but as you can see from the attached work, it was tedious. Anyways, she talks little, has a twitch, and seems to being watching my every move as I write this, on the outskirts of their little grouping by the fire.

The 'greener,' members disappoint me. Each one is remarkably normal, with black hair and blue eyes, and farmer's tans. Between them they barely said a sentence to me. I suppose they must be shaken after their last battle against rebels just days ago, and on their own home planet they'd left to protect.

The selfishness of these traitors confounds me, but that is a topic I'm sure you'll know how to exploit.

They are named Kaleb, Andus, Saul, and Nathaniel. They are all fairly young and new to this. Saul is the second Corporal, but directly second in command for some reason. Nathaniel and Kaleb are both similarly unremarkable characters. I am unable to profile them as of now, for this day I've spent with them they have seemed closed off. I would suggest you create your own ideas for their stories and personalities, for a writer I am not, and good art they will not make.

Andus though, Andus praises the Emperor and the Imperium in all he does. He chants litanies as he cleans his gun, a confident smile on his young face. It proves, in my mind, that whatever the squad went through was not so terrible; Andus overcame it with faith. The others are simply sorry soldiers, I say.

The tenth member I have a hard time characterizing. He is of Magna III descent, but not a member of the recruits, nor the veterans. He is obviously young, but I can tell he's seen battle before. I had the pleasure of speaking with him, and he was well spoken and educated. If it matters, we spoke on art and philosophy. His voice, oddly, is ravaged by smoke damage, making him sound slightly irked whenever he speaks. I wish I had more time to speak with him.

Overall I must say my experience with 3rd Squad is disheartening. Though there are a few prime examples of the Guard in this group, like Andus, Geist, or Pyr, men who embody the intelligence, faith, loyalty and zeal of the organization, the rest are sorry. They seem bitter and petty with each other, as far removed as a xeno from a human. I leave this up to your digression, but I would suggest you create your own personas for these men and women, and do with my picts as you may. I move on soon to the next group. Hopefully, they will be a better representation of our armies.


End file.
